Legend of the Runeforger: A Dwarven Progression Fantasy

Guildmaster Wharoth, I know, spends most of every day and night in his personal forge. I also know he does not like to be distracted while he is working.

Nonetheless, I feel I have no choice. I need to pass this exam. Every night when I close my eyes I see the black dragon’s green eyes bore into mine, feel its claws press upon my chest and crush the breath from me.

I wait for a pause in the hammering behind the door. I knock.

No answer, and the hammering starts up again. The next time it stops, I just walk in.

Surely if he didn't want to be disturbed he would have locked the door.

He's standing over the anvil. Sweat is dripping from his gray beard and running down his salamander skin apron. The hammer he holds is a runed one, likely custom-forged. He looks mildly irritated rather than furious, which I take as a good sign.

"What is it, Zathar?"

"I need your advice. Can we talk now? Or maybe later, in your office?"

"Here and now is fine."

He puts down his hammer and throws a thick rag over the anvil so I can't see what he's making.

"It's about the exam," I say.

"Not about your feud?"

"No. Well, I mean... I’m an initiate. I can’t defend myself against a runeknight. Even if he’s just the seventh degree."

"Fights are decided by the better steel. Not by what degree you are."

"If I want to afford better metal, better dictionaries, I’ll need a better job than an initiate can get."

He shrugs. "True enough. If you want tips you should ask one of the others, though."

“You’ve been through more than them.”

“Longer ago.”

“You must be able to tell me something. Anything.”

"The others are more up-to-date."

"You're the most experienced though."

He sighs. “Fine. One thing. Then you can get out of here.”

"Yes?" I say eagerly. "What is it?"

"It's not the tip you want to hear," he warns.

"If it'll help me become a runeknight, I want to hear it."

"Very well.”

I tense in anticipation of the vital wisdom he is about to impart.

“My advice is to stop bloody rushing!” He throws up his hands in exasperation. “Earn some more, forge some more—another two suits worth of practice and you might have something decent enough to pass in.”

“Two suits! And you recommend I spend months on each, I suppose.”

“Armor is vital,” he warns. “The examiners will not go easy on you."

"Kazhek wants to kill me.”

"You rush, the examiners will do his job for him. Figuratively or literally. If they don’t think you’re worthy, they’ll tear you apart."

"If I don’t become a runeknight soon, I’ll be in pieces anyway!"

"Calm down, calm down. As long as you stick around here, Kazhek can’t do anything. Go slow, that’s the key. I believe I’ve told you already.”

“But—”

He holds a finger to his lips to quiet me. Then he beckons me forward.

“Come here.”

I walk to the anvil. He pulls the thick sheet away with a flourish. Lying upon it is a single small plate of metal. It’s darker than steel.

"Tungsten," Wharoth says.

"Pure?"

"Of course not. Impossible to work with, even with my special hammer.”

“What’s it alloyed with, then?”

“Not telling you. Not telling anyone,” he laughs. “My point is, how long do you think I’ve been working on this piece? This single scale.”

“Three years,” I say drily.

He raises his eyebrows. “Got it in one. See, you’ve learned something. Now apply it to your own work.”

I do not have three years to spend on a single plate of armor. Wharoth does not know it, but his life is on the line. I have decided to take the exam at the end of the month, which is in approximately two weeks. This is not long enough to improve my sparring, to forge better armor, to forge a better weapon.

Repair is the best I can manage.

I lay my armor on the bed and think about what I can salvage. It’s less than I expected—it’s dented all over, especially at the breastplate. Scratches abound. The steel band I won’t be able to replace with my current funds, not if I want to replace the chainmail, which is torn in several places. I don’t want to bleed out like Polt.

With the silver I received from my job, I make the purchases I require. A new sheet of iron for the breastplate, and some chainmail. The third cheapest option this time. I really don’t want to bleed out like Polt.

It takes me a whole day to make the repairs. The sheet of iron goes on first. I heat it and the old one to white hot and hammer them together. While it cools I work on stripping out the underlayer of chainmail from the rest of the armor. Depressing work, considering how much effort I put into sewing it in. I also remove the steel band the dragon broke, which is doubly depressing, both for the silver the steel cost me and also my runic poem, which I was rather proud of.

Once the breastplate is cooled, I graft some weak runes of weightlessness to it. They should just about halve the thing’s weight. I try to hammer out the various dents, polish away the other various shapes from the rest of the armor, then I put it all together with the new chainmail.

It occurs to me that Wharoth would smack me in the head with his hammer if he knew what I was doing, and I suppose he will find out at some point, but I’d rather see him angry than burned to death.

With my armor ready, I leave the forge. Not wearing it, of course, with the uneven bits and all, but swathed in sheets, like a woman might swathe an illegitimate child while rushing it away to some safe haven.

There won’t be any safe haven for my armor though, not as long as I’m in it. I put it in my room and head to the central arena, where signups are taken for the exam.

The central arena, contrary to what its name might suggest, is not located in the center of Runethane Thanerzak’s side of the city. It is located outside the city, halfway up the mountain a thousand and a half feet or so below the castle. It is not circular like most arenas either, but a half circle—half floor, half five hundred foot drop.

Apparently the drop is fenced off most of the time.

Most of the time.

Just outside the arena is a small plaza, the main feature of which, and why it is so crowded, are the brightly painted betting shops. I shove my way through the shouting, greedy crowds of shop-workers, miners on break, and assorted runeknights, all eagerly waving betting slips and jangling bags of coins, and eventually make it to the corner office where exam signups are taken.

Naturally there is a line. Naturally everyone in it is in armor. My hooded figure—on the off chance Kazhek or another one of the Troglodyte Slayers is here I'm wearing a cloak—draws odd looks from the gray-haired, severely dressed ladies at the desk.

“Name and guild?” one says when I’m at the front of the queue.

“Zathar of the Association of Steel.”

“They can’t even afford to get their initiates in armor now, can they?”

“I didn't know I had to—”

“No, no you don’t have to have it now. Joking. Silver please.”

I pay the thirty silvers.

“Good. Next please!”

I blink in surprise. “What? That’s it?”

“What else would there be?”

I had been expecting an interview or something, to make sure I wasn't going to waste the examiners' time. Or in the worst case scenario some kind of armor inspection.

“I... I’m not sure. That’s really it? I’m down for this month? This month, right?”

“Do you want to go next month?”

For a brief moment I consider it. I could improve my fighting, brush up on the written part, maybe scrape together money for a shield—no. I have no time.

“This month.”

“Good. Make sure your armor’s ready in time. There’s a fine for no-shows. Another thirty silvers.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Good.” She shoos me away. “Next please!”